The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real by Neta Jackson Page A

Ricardo, Jodi. Now, where were we—oh, sí! La quinceañera for Amanda. For you it should be easy! She is the first one in your family, so there are no traditions, no expectations you have to live up to.”
    â€œExcept José’s,” I grumbled.
    Delores laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about José. He just wants to get a band together and play Latino music and dance with Amanda.”
    â€œThat’s it? Play music and dance? What about—”
    At the other end of the house, I heard the back door slam. “Mom! We’re home! What’re all the boxes doing on the back porch?”
    â€œAack! Delores, I can’t talk now,” I hissed into the phone. “The kids just got home. I’ll call you when the coast is clear, okay? I’ve got some more questions.”
    I pressed the off button and hustled toward the back of the house. Maybe—just maybe—this quinceañera thing would be doable after all.
    TO MY CREDIT, i did try a couple of times in the next few days to catch my upstairs neighbors at home to ask if they’d found a renter, but it was Friday evening before we actually connected. It was one of those nights the Baxter family galloped off in all directions: Denny had to coach back-to-back basketball games at West Rogers High; Josh picked up Yo-Yo’s brothers and took them to the game on Denny’s pass; and Amanda was babysitting for one of the Uptown families. That left Willie Wonka and me to fend for ourselves with a big bowl of popcorn and a video of The African Queen.
    Just as well.Whew! What a week. Avis and I barely saw each other at school except for a brief stop in the hall, when she told me she’d talked to the school social worker about some sessions with Hakim. “But we do need to get parental permission,” she’d warned. “So keep praying, Jodi.” So . . . I’d been praying. Praying for Avis too. About the pain she carried for her cousin in prison, for her private struggle with God. I wanted to tell other Yada Yada sisters to pray too—but I put a lid on it. Avis’s struggle was hers to share . . . or not.
    I’d eaten to the bottom of the popcorn bowl when I heard enormous thumping, like rugs had been rolled up and furniture was being moved across bare floors. Yikes! The Bennetts were moving out, and I hadn’t asked if they’d found someone to sublet! “I really would like to know who’s moving in,” I muttered to Willie as I put the video on pause , stuck my feet in a pair of scuffs, and grabbed my jacket from the coatrack. The dog followed me to the kitchen, his tail drooping like a limp noodle as I unlocked the back door. “Don’t worry!” I said, bending down and giving him a smackeroo between his wrinkled brows. “Be back in less time than it takes for you to chew up a newspaper.”
    I scuttled up the outside steps leading to the upstairs apartment and almost fell on my face on a treacherous icy patch. “Should have taken the front stairs,” I grumbled, pulling myself up gingerly by the handrail.When I got to the top, the kitchen curtains had been taken down and bright light spilled out onto the small porch. I rapped tentatively on the window in the door. Nothing. I rapped again, louder. Someone peered into the kitchen, dis-appeared, then what seemed like a full minute later, Rose Bennett appeared wearing old sweats and a bandana around her hair and unlocked the door. “Yes?”
    I was sweating inside my jacket. Guess she wasn’t going to invite me in. “Uh, hi, Rose. I heard you packing and, uh, wondered when you guys were actually leaving for Atlanta.”
    â€œIs there a problem?”
    â€œNo, no! Just didn’t want you to leave without saying good-bye.” Well, that was kinda true. Even if we hadn’t been cozy neighbors, we could at least have a decent farewell. “Did you find someone to sublet your